Hearse and Gardens (5 page)

I looked down and saw Celia's daughter, Kate, sitting stiffly next to a Plexiglas beverage cart topped with discarded cocktail and wineglasses.

“It must be nice having someone your own age living here.”

Kate must have felt us watching because she glanced up and gave a weak wave, then took both hands and put
them around her neck like she was hanging from a noose. She mouthed, “Save me.”

Liv smiled.

The noose gesture reminded me of the strangled gull.

Liv said, “Kate can be a little intense, but look who's her role model.”

Celia stood next to the actor twins from one of the popular crime scene investigator TV shows—Maui, Seattle, or Poughkeepsie. Who could keep track? Both actors were gorgeous but way too young to be interested in Celia.

Then she led the twins over to meet Kate. If looks could kill, Celia would have been a doornail.

When Celia walked away, one twin on each arm, Kate reached for a partially empty wineglass and chugged. She continued to drain every drop of liquid from each glass on top of the cart, not caring that a group of guests had gathered to watch. It was a good thing Celia was on the other side of the room, chatting with a famous director, and didn't see her.

Score one for Celia. Subtract two for Kate.

Liv looked at me. “Kate's father isn't the greatest either. He has lots of money, nothing compared to Granddad. But when he divorced Celia, he cut her and Kate off without a dime. I understand cutting off Celia. But Kate? His own flesh and blood? Kate's father can't even be bothered to see her. He spends his summers on Shelter Island, only a few miles and a short ferry boat away.”

“Well, living at Sandringham can't be too shabby an arrangement for Kate or anyone else.”

“True. I love this house—the old and even the new addition. Celia built the modern addition right after she
married Granddad. Prior to that, all the modern art was stored on the third floor.”

I glanced down. Elle was talking to Nathan Morrison. Nathan hadn't been at Pierce's funeral. I was surprised he'd showed up for the wake. Elle didn't seem to view him as a serial killer any longer. Then I realized she was holding on to his arm and keeling left to right, trying to get her sea legs. Elle was tipsy.

Then the worst thing happened. I heard a distinctive laugh. More like a cackling. Even if I hadn't been wearing my hearings aids, I would've recognized the nails-on-a-chalkboard sound. At the bottom of the circular stairs, Tara Gayle was flirting with Byron Hughes.

Oh no, you don't.

I turned to Liv. “I better get back to Elle.”

“You have a choice,” Liv said. “You can either take the secret stairs in the old wing or the circular stairs to the heart of the action.”

“I'll take the circular stairs.” Of course, if I hadn't seen Tara, I would have taken the secret stairs. What Nancy Drew wannabe wouldn't? But Tara wasn't moving in on my landscape architect if I had anything to say about it.

Unfortunately, Tara saw my descent and quickly took Byron's elbow, steering him out to the side terrace. I had to make a decision: rescue Elle or follow them outside. Sisterly love trumped hate.

*   *   *

A few minutes later Elle and I waited at the front of Sandringham for the valet to bring Elle's truck. Richard was nowhere in sight. Of course, I wouldn't let Elle drive
inebriated. I helped her onto the passenger seat, buckled her in, then handed her a full bottle of water I'd taken from an eight-pack in the bed of the pickup. “Drink.”

I went around the front of the truck, opened the door, jumped onto the running board, and got in.

Elle chugged the water, then put the empty bottle in the drink console. “Did you see Tara Gayle tonight? What a poser. Walks around like she has a stick up her . . .” Elle hiccupped. “I'll have to tell Uncle Harry to take her off any future guest lists. Pull up the moat when she comes to call!”

“Too bad her shop, Champagne and Caviar Antiques, had to shut down last spring.”

“Because of you. And Bridgehampton is all the more better for it.”

“Thanks, friend. Why don't you bunk down at my place and you can drive me back for my Jeep in the morning?”

Her only response was a few short snorts. Elle was in la-la land.

I put the truck in gear and pulled away, happy I didn't have to walk to my Jeep in my killer shoes. When I reached Egret Lane, my Wrangler was where I'd left it. Still a pumpkin.

Elle's pickup was easier to drive than you would have thought—actually, a lot smoother than my tub of rust. I thought of all the wonderful damage I could do with a pickup truck and the right estate sale. Then I remembered the hefty sum I'd given Byron Hughes and realized I'd have to make do with what I owned free and clear.

*   *   *

All was quiet when we reached my rental. I helped Elle inside, propping her against the pie safe cupboard as I punched in my alarm code. I followed behind her up the stairs and into the cottage's only bathroom. It was small but had a claw-foot tub and the largest daisy showerhead on the market. I left her inside, and waited on my bed under the sloped ceiling. The bed's headboard consisted of four vintage shutters with crescent moon cutouts, painted in a sun-washed blue with undertones of turquoise. The white matelassé jacquard duvet and lofty goose down comforter came from a high-end French bedding website—costing me almost a month's rent—but well worth it. I kicked off my shoes. They were going straight in the donation pile. Pink Ribbon thrift shop would probably clear three hundred dollars when they sold them.

Elle came out of the bathroom. I offered her the bed, but she insisted on sleeping on the sofa. I grabbed the duvet, brought it downstairs, and lit a fire in the flagstone fireplace. After I was sure Elle was safely snuggled under the duvet, just the tip of her nose sticking out, I went outside.

I was an idiot to go to the beach after the fish-gut episode, but I wouldn't let anything keep me from my nightly visit. I grabbed a heavy claw hammer from my toolbox and took it with me for security. When I got close to the gate at the top of the steps leading down to the beach, the wood planks were wiped clean. The bucket was placed in front of the beach grass. Patrick Seaton must have cleaned it up—which meant he had my back.

I planned to call Detective Shoner in the morning to report the incident, but I wouldn't tell Doc the worrier. I took the steps down to the beach. On the sand in front of Patrick's cottage, I found:

We are all in the gutter,

But some of us are looking at the stars.

Oscar Wilde. This was the first semi-uplifting quote he'd written since the first time I'd found poetry on his beach, almost two years ago. Perhaps Georgia was right. Patrick Seaton was moving on.

Early Monday morning, Elle drove me back to Sandringham to pick up my Jeep. We'd found Nathan Morrison standing next to my car, writing down my license plate number. Apparently, I'd parked on his property. He seemed genial enough when he saw us, especially when he saw Elle: a sober, but hungover Elle.

After picking up the Jeep, I had dragged Elle along to Paddy's Pancake House to meet Doc for our Monday morning standing date. Doc had been happy to see us, but I could tell he was upset we couldn't talk turkey about Pierce Falks's murder. Every time Doc asked Elle a detail about the state of Pierce's skeleton, including the sights and smells in the room, she closed her eyes and stuck her fingers in her ears. I'd told her about the fish-gut prank, so that might've had something to do with her squeamishness.

After Paddy's, Elle and I sat in the gazebo on Montauk's
village green, comparing notes about last night's wake. We each had an apple fritter and a cup of joe in our hands. I tore off a chunk of fritter and stuffed it in my mouth. “I saw you talking to Nathan at the wake. Anything I should know?”

“I'm a little hazy about last night. My wineglass never seemed empty.”

“The sign of a good host.”

“You mean hostess. Celia surely was in her element.”

“Back to Nathan. What did you learn—besides that he looks like Gregory Peck?”

“Wow. You're right. Those eyebrows.” Then Elle shook her finger at me. “Oh no, you don't. This isn't something you can figure out. Pierce was killed twenty years ago. Maybe I shouldn't even tell you, but Uncle Harry said we could go back in the bungalow and continue with the clean-out.”

“Yay.”

“I don't like that look in your eyes.”

“Nathan?”

“Nathan was best friends with Pierce and practically grew up at Sandringham. He remained close to Uncle Harry and Liv, even after he'd thought his best friend had taken off with his wife. He lives in a gatehouse on the property adjoining Sandringham. It's been in his family for four generations. The oceanfront mansion that went with the gatehouse burned down in the Prohibition days, and the land was sold to the town when he couldn't keep up with the taxes. Nathan's great-grandfather used the ocean as a way to bring in bootlegged liquor. Barrels of booze were stored in the mansion's wine cellar turned
speakeasy. One night his great-grandfather fell asleep in the cellar with a cigar in his mouth. He and all those barrels went up in flames, along with the ancestral homestead.”

I drained the last drop of coffee from my cup. “I went to a Montauk Library lecture with Doc last month about pirates on the East End.”

“Anything to do with searching for treasure interests our kind.”

“Our kind?” I grinned. “We are a special breed, aren't we? All I know is people have been using the shores of Montauk for their nefarious undertakings since Long Island was under British rule. Back then, Long Island was part of Connecticut. Pirates loved Montauk because of the open ocean on one side and the bays and inlets on the other. Captain Kidd not only buried treasure on nearby Gardiners Island, but there are rumors that the two small ponds at the base of the Montauk Point Lighthouse hide more of Kidd's loot. That's how they got the name ‘The Money Ponds.' Folklore says one of the ponds is bottomless.”

“I'll have to remember that when I scour your beach for sea glass. I might find a gold doubloon or two.”

“Doubtful. We're talking three-hundred-plus years ago. The Gardiners Island treasure was dug up by authorities as evidence for Kidd's trial. He was sentenced to death and died on the gallows.”

A troop of seagulls waited at the bottom of the gazebo steps for stray apple fritter scraps. Fat chance. People didn't line up outside Paddy's Pancake House just for their coffee. “Did you ask if Nathan had any idea who'd want to kill Pierce?”

“Of course not. Especially with his wife as the number one suspect. And no, I didn't ask him about the missing Warhol either.”

I soaked in my surroundings. The weather was glorious for mid-October. It was hard to believe a nor'easter was scheduled to hit on Wednesday. The grass was still verdant under a mosaic of crimson and burnt orange leaves. Something strange and wonderful hit me. I felt at home. Montauk had become my touchstone. Life was simple, but never boring. The people were real and if I needed a shock of culture, I only had to travel 16 miles due west to East Hampton or 116 miles to Manhattan.

Friday, when the Hamptons International Film Festival opened, the minions would descend on the East End like a cloud of five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume. And guess what? I'd be right next to them, ticket in hand for my chosen indie movie premiere. I could stand shoulder to shoulder with celebs if I wanted. Well, if not next to them, then near them. Life didn't get much better.

The only glitch I saw in my future was if Gordon Miles won the lawsuit and I lost Little Grey. Sure, I'd get my down payment back, but where could you find a cottage on the ocean for that price?

Answer: nowhere.

We walked back to my rental, passing quaint, unpretentious shops: a fudge store, a florist, a toy store, a bakery, a jewelry and clothing boutique, and a coffee shop. We turned off Montauk Highway and strolled by St. Paul's. St. Paul's was the church who sold me my cottage. It had been left to them by Mrs. Eberhardt.

Elle complained the whole way. She wasn't an exercise
fiend, nor was I, but I loved the fact that town was less than a mile away. As we walked, I filled Elle in on the shouting match I witnessed at the wake between Brandy and Richard, and my time with Uncle Harry and Liv. She seemed happy Liv was such a devoted granddaughter.

When we got to the rental, I showed Elle my storyboard for Rebecca Crandle's cottage. After it received her stamp of approval, she headed back to Sag Harbor to relieve her part-time shop worker, Maurice.

Off-season, Mabel and Elle's Curiosities was closed on weekdays. For the next couple of weeks, because of the Hamptons International Film Festival, Elle adopted an open-seven-days-a-week policy. Elle had regular showbiz clients who came to her when they were in town, to feed their collecting addictions. Elle didn't need the money, just the satisfaction of someone finding that special one-of-a-kind item that would make their day. Elle's great-aunt had left her very wealthy, and it was thanks to her loan that I was able to pull off the down payment on Little Grey.

I sat on the sofa to make a phone call to my father. He was already on the case to find some kind of proof Gordon Miles wasn't who he said he was.

Jeff Barrett picked up on the first ring. “Hey, kitten.”

“Hi, Dad. What's for dinner tonight?”

“Well, let me see. Sheila's got me on this new farm-to-table kick. We're leaving in a few minutes to go foraging for wild herbs and greens. I plan to make homemade sausage with gnocchi in a sage broth. We'll see. It depends what the forest yields.”

Sheila was my father's new bride. They were married less than a year. In the beginning, I had a hard time with
Sheila's intrusion into my father and my table-for-two life, but he was in Detroit and I was in Montauk. It was time we both moved on in the romance department. And Sheila wasn't that bad.

I looked at the screen on the phone to double-check I'd read what he said correctly. I had. “Foraging for greens in Detroit, the Motor City? Where?”

“Actually, on one of the old automobile moguls' estates in Grosse Pointe. It's been turned into an organic farm and natural animal habitat. There's a vast forest on the estate and it's only two miles away. It's run by the university.”

“Well, make sure they point out the poison herbs from the safe. Did you have a chance to do any digging? And I don't mean for wild turnips.”

“Yes, but I don't think you'll be too happy. Sergeant Gordon Miles is a war hero. He came back from the Middle East after a four-year tour. He was held in the mountains, missing in action, for half that time by some rebels. Sorry to bring you the bad news.”

Darn you, Gordon Miles. Now you're a nice guy?
Maybe the seagull was just a prank by a local teen. But what about the fish guts?

“How about any genealogical ties to the former owner?”

“More bad news. The former owner, Mrs. Eberhardt, did have a nephew who recently died and his name was Joseph Miles. Gordon's father, I assume.”

“Ugh. I need time to absorb this. I better run. Give my love to Sheila.”

My father said, “Will do. Don't give up yet on your property. The other side still has to prove their case. Love you.”

“Love you back.”

“Oh. One more thing. Tell Doc to stop texting me and make an actual phone call.”

“Will do.” Doc texting? Must be Georgia's influence, the seventy-year-old who acted like she was thirty.

After I hung up the phone, I thought about my attorney. He wasn't anything like smooth Justin Marguilles. He was a kind, elderly Montaukian nearing retirement age. I trusted him. He had kind eyes.

I got up and grabbed a Vernors from the fridge, then sat on the sofa thinking about Gordon Miles. Even if Gordon was related to the former owner, why couldn't Old Lady Eberhardt have left her estate to the church if she wanted? I'd bought it from the church. Now that I thought about it, what did the church think about Gordon Miles's claim? What if they already gave the money from the sale to some missionaries, or helped the homeless, or invested in some other altruistic project?

I hadn't told my father that my preliminary hearing about Little Grey was scheduled for today, at four thirty. I'd finally be able to set my sights on Gordon Miles, and let my gut tell me if he was a good guy or bad.